


Her Treasured Slave Boy

by WalterRego



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Rating: M, Service Submission, Servitude fiction, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:36:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalterRego/pseuds/WalterRego
Summary: A recounting of the day and musings of a contemporary male slave





	Her Treasured Slave Boy

He woke easily, even though there was still very little daylight coming in from the window by the bed. He no longer needed an alarm in the morning, as over time he had become accustomed to waking without the sound of an alarm which might disturb her sleep before it was time for her to get up. Michael reached down over the bed and flung the cover up over his body, then sat up and bent over to untie the soft purple rope around his right ankle. That was something he was allowed to do, unlike the collar around his neck which only she was permitted to unlock and remove whenever she fastened it on. The rope was something which she allowed to him, symbolic as it was, to tie and untie. To acknowledge by tying it around his ankle every night when he went to bed, that even in sleep he was hers, and every morning that he was willingly, of his own free will, recommitting himself to serve and attend upon her. 

Allowing him to untie the rope was the most practical too. After all, it would hardly do for her to have to wake up each morning to untie him, just for him to get out of bed to prepare her coffee and breakfast. Delegating to him her permission to tie and untie the night-time rope both affirmed her authority and gave him a ritual reminder each morning and night that he was renewing his commitment to serve her. It was a daily ritual they both enjoyed having between them. 

Usually they slept in the same bed together, although whether or not was her nightly choice. But last evening she had returned tired and weary from a three-day work conference. He had picked her up from the airport, loaded her bag into the back of the car and driven her home. She was so tired and weary that, without even any dinner, just a glass of wine, she had asked him for a massage to help her get to sleep. Of course, asking him for a massage was in itself a bit of a loving conceit they shared. She could have just told him that she needed one and he would have immediately gone to get out the white towel and the lavender massage oil she liked as she undressed and laid down in the bed. But telling him how achy she was from the conference and flight and asking him sweetly if he would mind giving her a massage was just the way she was. Recognizing his desire to serve her and keeping the dignity she prized in him.

When she drifted off into sleep it was too early for him to go to bed himself. And there were a few light evening chores still left to be done. Her travel bag to be unpacked and clothes to be placed into the hamper for washing, a few dishes to be washed, lights to be turned off. He attended to those, watched a tv show and then decided not to usurp her prerogative by getting into her bed or chance waking her, while tying the rope and waiting for sleep to come. Instead, he had retired to the single bed in small room at the end of the hall used for guests and sometimes, for play, or his punishment and reflection time alone.

This morning he went downstairs into the kitchen and placed the kettle on the burner for his own morning tea, a strong malty Irish Breakfast blend, then measured out just enough freshly roasted beans he’d picked up yesterday into the grinder for her two cups of coffee. One for her to drink on her bed tray or at the table, and one cup for her travel mug, which he’d wait to prepare and have hot and ready just before she left to drive to work. He placed two pieces of light whole grain wheat bread in the toaster and took out the preserves and vegan butter he’d spread on them. He felt a bit guilty doing that, after all she wasn’t vegan and loved butter. But in the morning she rarely noticed especially under jam, and he knew it was better for her than the butter she preferred. Yes, his job was to obey and serve her as she chose, but he also loved her and her health was important too. Small deviations for her own good - if she didn’t notice- was an occasional technical form of disobedience he allowed himself.

As he drank his tea, he wondered, should he put her breakfast on the tray and bring it up to bed this morning? Chance gently waking her? Or should he just wait until she called for him or rang the small handbell by her bedside? It was a quandary he often faced, but today he knew she’d want to get to work early and catch up on the files she had missed reviewing while at the conference. So he placed the cup and saucer, small sugar bowl and creamer on the tray, the covered plate with buttered toast, jam and last the small pot of hot coffee and headed upstairs.


End file.
